


Marvel Does Omovember

by slippery_soak



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Accidents, Bed-Wetting, Clothes Wetting, Desperation, Diapers, Multi, Omorashi, Omovember, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peeing in Inappropriate Places, Situational Humiliation, Urination, Watersports, Wetting, prompt collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-11-24 17:24:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20911334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slippery_soak/pseuds/slippery_soak
Summary: A collection of thirty small ficlets based on some random omovember/pissember prompts.Each prompt will be clearly labeled in the chapter title and character/pairing/warnings will be included in the chapter notes.





	1. Using a pillow or towel to help them hold it

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, all. I’ve decided to write that thing that absolutely no one has asked for! That’s right: it’s a bunch of Marvel characters wetting themselves!! Thirty times, no less!
> 
> Let’s be real, this is an awful lot of piss writing to undertake. Encouragement in the form of kudos and comments is MOST APPRECIATED. (As always, comments are moderated. If you’d like to leave a comment for me to read but do NOT want it published, simply tag it with #anon at the end.)
> 
> Please be aware that relationship and character tags are subject to change. 
> 
> These prompts have been taken from several lists that have been floating around Tumblr for years, as well as my own favorite ideas. Basically I’m writing whatever I want and updating whenever I feel like it. 
> 
> And finally, if pee doesn’t do it for you, please, just walk away...
> 
> ...just...walk away.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve Rogers will do just about anything to avoid the cold, including wetting the bed with his best friend lying right next to him, apparently.

Mission op gone sideways? Check. Stranded in blizzard-like conditions? Check. Holed up in a cabin in the woods? Check. Having to share a bed with your teammate? Check. 

Really, things couldn’t get much worse. 

_Checkmate_.

——————

Steve shivered under the dusty quilt and tried to think warm thoughts. Tony had managed to get a meager fire lit in the fireplace of the tiny one-room cabin they’d managed—by some miracle or just plain dumb luck—to find right before the storm hit. It provided a little warmth, but not enough. Tony, never one for modesty or convention, gave up on fighting the elements pretty much as soon as the sun went down. He chucked his clothing down to his underwear (tight, black boxer briefs—and good God, Steve didn’t look, couldn’t look, shouldn’t look so closely but...) and he suggested that Steve do the same. Body heat, at this point, Tony assured him was their best bet. 

The storm hit hard and fast. Steve didn’t think he’d ever seen a blizzard quite so fierce. He’d seen his fair share of snow in Europe, but these days he tended to avoid any and all snowy scenes. He didn’t have the nightmares as much these days, but he fucking hated being cold. His teammates liked to joke about how he always “ran hot”, fancy serum and all that, but Steve didn’t really feel it. Most of the time, he was just...cold.

He inched his body closer to Tony’s under the covers, like a shy heat-seeking missile not sure of its course, and tried to even out his breathing. He’d definitely had worse ops conditions before. At least he wasn’t sleeping on the ground, in a tent, in the middle of a war. Tony was his best friend, and they were safe, and S.H.I.E.L.D. would find them in the morning when the storm broke and the quinjets could navigate the terrain. Right now the only thing he could do was sleep. 

Steve rolled on his side, his back to Tony. Tony, also lying on his side, shifted on the mattress with his movement, so that their backs were touching. Steve suppressed a shudder at the solid line of heat pressed against his spine.

Then he felt his bladder twinge.

Steve shut his eyes tight and willed the full feeling away. There was nowhere in this shack of a room for him to relieve himself. And he sure as hell wasn’t getting dressed and heading out into the freezing cold snow and ice to take a piss. He was going to sleep, and then he could deal with his bladder in the morning like the goddamn super-soldier he was.

After couple of deep breaths, concentrating on the feel of Tony’s skin pressed against his, he began to finally drift off to sleep. 

——————

Steve woke in the middle of the night to Tony’s arm wrapped tightly around his chest and his knees pressed flush against the back of Steve’s. The feeling of their bodies spooned together like that was...nice. Steve let himself sink back into the warmth, Tony’s breath snuffled and hot against his shoulder. The sensation tickled, but not in a bad way—in more of an arousing way, and _shit_. Was this what had woken him up? His treacherous dick? Getting turned on in the dead of night by what was _clearly_ Platonic Cuddling for Survival ™️?

But no. He wasn’t hard, thank God. But he was uncomfortable. He tried to give his body a little stretch, careful not to disturb Tony, and then he remembered. He remembered, at the exact same time his bladder gave a demanding spasm, just exactly what his state had been when he fell asleep. Situation unchanged. Fuck, it was _worse_. He really had to pee. And now, in addition to not wanting to get dressed to brave a blizzard, he certainly wasn’t going to disturb Tony by trying to get out of bed to...what? Piss on the floor? Aside from the uniform gear they’d had on them when they’d gotten lost, the only contents of the room were some dried logs for the fire, the bed they were currently sleeping on, and a wooden chair propped in the corner. Steve also clocked a shovel and a box of what looked like tinned rations when they entered. No buckets or bottles that he’d noticed.

Steve’s bladder spasmed again, more forcefully this time, and he tried not to wince. He repeated to himself that there was nothing he could do about it right now, like a desperate mantra, and willed his body to ignore the tight fluttering in his belly and the nervous jiggle that threatened to overtake his thighs. He clenched his muscles, and regretfully maneuvered a hand down to his crotch. What was the worst that would happen if Tony woke up and noticed him clutching his dick? He’d think Steve was a horny bastard, morning wood and all that. But there were worse things to think. 

So Steve gripped his cock and concentrated, once again, on the feel of Tony at his back. Warmth, and softness, and comforting feelings despite his desperate predicament. 

He fell back to sleep.

——————

Steve woke up.

Again.

Tony was still wrapped around him like an octopus. His own hand was still holding on to his dick. And his bladder. His bladder was thrumming insistently. Steve knew, the moment he woke this time, that he wasn’t going to be able to ignore the situation any longer. But, _fuck_. What was he going to do? He could try stroking himself, with the idea that if he could get hard enough, he wouldn’t be able to piss, but that wasn’t going to solve anything. He’d just by lying there with a full bladder and a raging erection, and then he’d have _two_ monumental problems to deal with instead of just the one. 

He massaged his dick through the fabric of his shorts anyway. The movement felt good for about 12.5 seconds and then his dick was twitching again with the need to release. He was sweating and growing more anxious by the minute. His boxers felt damp against the palm of his skin, and he pressed his hand more urgently against himself, silently begging his pee to just stay inside. But he knew he was fighting a losing battle. His hand wasn’t going to be enough. He needed more pressure. 

Steve thought it through for all of about thirty seconds before he very, very carefully removed his hand from his groin and slowly reached under his head for his pillow. His body was taut with nervous tension, trying to both keep from waking Tony and also trying not to fucking piss the bed. Once he’d carefully worked the pillow lose he maneuvered it down to his crotch and pressed it firmly against his leaking cock.

The momentary relief he felt was incredible. But of course it didn’t last. Steve pushed the pillow tightly against himself, trying not to rut against the soft material but mostly failing at this point. He could _feel_ the urine inside of himself beginning to make its way out of his body, and he was becoming helpless against the inevitable outcome. He was about to wet himself with his teammate, his _friend_, lying right beside him. He felt small and so ashamed as pee began to steadily dribble from out his flaccid penis, wetting his underwear and eventually the pillow clutched in his shaking hand.

He tried to scoot farther away from Tony as the dribbling morphed into painful spurts, each lasting a few seconds longer than the last. Steve whimpered. He couldn’t help himself. He was vaguely aware that Tony was stirring awake behind him but he couldn’t acknowledge him. He couldn’t acknowledge anything except for the white-hot pain edged with pleasure as his bladder finally began to gain some relief. An exceptionally long spurt of pee wet the front of his shorts thoroughly and he groaned. The pillow was going to be his only saving grace, he realized belatedly. His only hope of saving some of the mattress and hopefully not pissing on Tony was if he used the pillow to absorb as much wetness as he could.

He rolled partially onto his stomach, smooshing the pillow more firmly between his body and the mattress. And then...then...he just let go. He wanted to believe he didn’t have a choice, that his body just decided for him, but that wasn’t entirely true. He was just so tired of holding, and he really didn’t see any other way out. So he just relaxed, and he let go. 

The relief, oh my fucking God, the relief as he finally began to pee in earnest was palpable. He lost all sense of awareness aside from the wet heat flooding his groin and the quiet _hiss_ of urine hitting the pillow forcefully, soaking into the stuffing. Tears stung the corners of his eyes but _he didn’t care_. Distantly he registered the loss of Tony’s arm around his chest, and more movement at his backside, but it felt far away, dreamlike, and not urgent.

His pee was urgent. He hadn’t wet the bed since he was a frail, sick child, and there really wasn’t any excuse for him doing so now, as a full grown adult, but _he didn’t care_. He couldn’t care. If he started to care he’d be mortified, humiliated, and he couldn’t even begin to process that now. The pillow in his hands—and when had he moved _both_ hands down there, cradling the soft padding against himself—was becoming soaked. But he wasn’t stopping.

Steve felt the warm liquid running down his balls and wetting his thighs. He hoped it wasn’t pooling on the mattress. He hoped Tony wasn’t getting wet, too. He tried to shift the pillow some to find a drier spot as he continued to wet, although his stream finally seemed to be slowing down. Steve felt boneless and weightless and tiny. Distantly he was aware of a hand on his back, rubbing a soothing circle, and when his pee finally stopped, he became aware of Tony whispering softly at his back.

“Oh, Steve, honey. Why didn’t you wake me up? It’s alright. You’re okay.”

Steve fought back tears and tried to curl into himself, a tight ball of shame and regret, but Tony continued to gently stroke his back and whisper calm reassurances, and Steve thought, vaguely, that maybe this wouldn’t be the worst thing that had happened to him this century, after all.


	2. Wetting a diaper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Hulk: Most people knew about the fatigue, the hunger, the mood swings, the muscle aches. But what no one knew was that for days after Bruce came back down into his body, he was also incontinent.

Bruce Banner kept a lot of secrets in his lifetime. Some found their way to the light of day, despite his best efforts to keep them hidden. Some he shared with only the closet of friends. Trust was not a natural inclination of his. But there was one secret, in particular, that he vowed he would take to his grave. His life...well there wasn’t a whole lot in his life that he had control over. There wasn’t anything in his life that he didn’t share with The Other Guy. He didn’t have the science to explain what _this_ was. He could maybe reason it out, psychologically, just like he did everything else that concerned the merging of his self and Hulk’s self. But what was the point? Some things just were. And he’d learned to live with that a long time ago, or else he would have gone slowly insane.

The truth, the dirty secret that he kept buried from any inquiring, curious minds, was this: Hulking out didn’t just take a toll on him emotionally, the physical fall-out was often spectacular. Most people knew about the fatigue, the hunger, the mood swings, the muscle aches. But what no one knew was that for days after Bruce came back down into his body, he was also incontinent. He would, upon waking from what felt like the deepest sleep of his life, find himself lying in a wet bed. Once or twice, it could have been written up as weird anomaly. A stress reaction. Not something to be overly concerned about.

But as time went on, it wasn’t just the bed Bruce was wetting. He started, after particularly long and grueling Hulk missions, to wet his pants as well. The shock of it was horrifying. Humiliating. Thankfully the team knew enough to leave him alone once his safety had been ascertained post-mission. When Hulk was quiet and submissive and resting, Bruce spent days alone in his apartment. He would sleep and eat and mediate and stretch and read books, and sometimes, when he was doing all these things, any of these things, his bladder would release without any warning at all.

And so, that is how it came to be that Bruce Banner, post-mission, in the seclusion and privacy of his own quarters, began to wear diapers. He was careful to never wear them around his teammates, and so far no one had discovered his secret, which was kind of amazing if one thought about it. He lived in a tower full of super soldiers, and spies, and scientific geniuses, but this one tiny thing was his alone. His secret. His shame. Just one more burden he carried, albeit not as heavily as he once did.

The situation was what it was, so what was the point of fighting it any longer?

——————

Tonight, the team had just finished up a brief but exhausting _squirmish_ in lower Manhatten: Avengers 1, Doombots 0. 

Back at the tower, Bruce said a few quiet goodbyes and hurried off to his floor, exhausted and cranky. Once safely inside his bedroom he stripped off his stretchy Hulk pants and reached under his bed for the carton of adult diapers he kept there. He quickly laid down on the bed and fastened the padded material around his groin with practiced ease. Pulling the blankets over his tired and sore body, he was asleep within minutes.

When Bruce woke, it was dark outside. His stomach growled as he rolled onto his back and stretched every last muscle in his body. He was wet but not horribly so. The diaper he was wearing was damp but still warm and not uncomfortable, so he threw on a pair of flannel pajama pants and a faded t-shirt and padded to the kitchen, too lazy to change himself. Post-battle hunger, he had learned, would always win out over a dry diaper.

As he stood in his kitchen, peering into the open fridge, he wasn’t surprised to feel a few sudden spurts of warm urine wet his padded crotch. He ignored them and reached for the container of left over chow mein noodles on the shelf. He didn’t have the energy for anything elaborate, so he just tossed the container in the microwave and called it dinner done. Once his food was heated, he settled into his sofa, pulling a cozy afghan onto his lap as he dug into the noodles with relish. His diaper felt a little heavier than it did before, but he wasn’t bothered. After the first two times he’d wet his pants uncontrollably like a child, the diapers became reassuring. Comforting. Safe. He didn’t feel nearly as ashamed peeing into a diaper as he did soiling the bedsheets or his clothing. So that was that.

He knew that after he ate, he would probably sit in meditation for a little while, and then do his yoga stretches before a shower, a fresh diaper, and bed. Despite the fact that he just got up, bed sounded really good. 

——————

JARVIS had unfogged the wall of glass windows that ran along his living room, letting the night sky twinkle and wink in the distance. Bruce sat cross-legged on a cushion facing the windows, taking in the city scenery down below. This was the part of living in the tower that he loved most. Sure, he was thankful for his lab and the privacy of his rooms, but his favorite thing about Avengers Tower was how ridiculously _high up_ it was. 

There was something really peaceful and calming about being above everything mundane and messy and noisy and chaotic. Being so high up that the problems of the world seemed really far away. The stress of battle was really far away. He felt relieved and safe and secure looking out at the far-off city lights. He was grateful.

Bruce sighed contentedly, and stretched his legs before shifting his weight and effortlessly transitioning into a comfortable downward-facing dog. He held the pose at length, back straight, feet planted firmly on the floor, heels digging in, palms flat. The stretch felt amazing. About thirty seconds into his stretch, his bladder decided to release a forceful stream. Bruce didn’t react. He just continued his yoga and let his body do its thing. The pee was filling up his diaper quickly. He was aware of the padding expanding against his pajama pants, and the hot rush of urine soaking his penis and his balls nestled snuggly against his body in the soft confines of his diaper.

Bruce let out a quiet breath of “oh”, because he’d never actually experienced wetting himself in this position before. Normally he was standing up or sitting down when he went, not bent in half and hanging upside down. The feeling was different, the way his pee filled up the diaper and pooled more to the front than the bottom, sagging between his thighs. He stood up slowly and carefully, because he was still peeing. 

Once he was fully upright, he reached down between his legs to adjust his diaper, surprised that instead of slowing down, his stream actually increased once he was standing. He kept his hand loosely cupped around his groin, feeling his dick lying hot and heavy on the other side of the soaked padding. Right now it was warm and comfortable but in a few minutes he would began to feel cold and itchy.

The rest of his yoga session would have to wait til morning. Bruce needed a shower and more sleep. Eventually, his pee began to trickle and slow and he was able to walk, gingerly, to the bathroom. Still holding himself as he somewhat waddled across the room, he gave himself a little squeeze. He felt the liquid inside his diaper slosh around a bit, and a tiny bit of pee leaked out of a corner and ran down his thigh. He didn’t normally go enough to leak like this but apparently tonight was a night of firsts.

Somewhere in a dark corner of his mind he felt a rush of affection and contentment from Hulk wash over him, and that was new, too. Just something more to ponder on as he carefully removed his soiled diaper and began to get ready for bed that night.


	3. Being tortured by the sound of running water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: implied torture, psychological and physical abuse, non-con elements
> 
> Bucky Barnes, as The Assest, has one overriding principle desire: to be _good_. But being desperate to relieve himself while restrained in his chair is the opposite of good. 
> 
> In fact, it’s very, very bad.

The Asset was _cold_. He was often cold, restrained in his chair, resting in that fuzzy indistinct place between here and not-here. He was awake, and conscious of his surroundings, but he also took no interest in them. This was the period in-between _treatments_, when he was left alone—to wait. There was a lot of waiting time in-between missions. He didn’t have any feelings about all the waiting, though.

He didn’t have any feelings about anything.

The Asset was _good_. His handlers often said so. The Asset was not supposed to have any feelings about anything, and so, he didn’t. Except that wasn’t entirely true. He felt very strongly that he wanted to continue being _good_ for his handlers. And he felt very strongly that he didn’t want to be _bad_. These two thoughts were the sum of all of his feelings, and they were enough. They were the thoughts that got him through each procedure, that kept him focused on his missions, and which helped keep him fed, clothed, and cared for while he was awake. Being _good_ made life easier. Being _ bad_ made life harder. 

He wanted life to be easy.

The Asset was _silent_. Even alone, lying shirtless and cold in his chair, waiting for the work to begin, he knew how to be good. Being good meant making no noise, issuing no complaints, and, most importantly, _not resisting_. There had been times in the past where he had resisted—he didn’t remember those times, not consciously; but his body remembered what his mind could not. And so, he knew, on some instinctual level, that resistance was _bad_.

And so, he did not resist. 

There was the quiet and the cold, and The Asset kept as still as he possibly could. The chair allowed him so very little movement as it was. His arms were restrained by large cuffs across his biceps and forearms, his legs at his calves and ankles. He could, if he was so inclined, turn his head slightly from side to side, and he could lift his torso and hips a fraction off the chair. There was no point to the movement, though. Moving underscored a restlessness that he did not actually feel. He was content to lie in his chair and be good because that was what made life easy. 

The Asset was silent, but the room he was in was not. There was a constant whir of white noise surrounding him. Machines blinked around him in the half darkness, occasionally emitting static hums and high-pitched beeps. He didn’t pay the noises any attention normally, but tonight there was something else, a new noise, teasing his periphery. After a few minutes of careful consideration, he was able to recognize the distant _taptaptap_ of a leaking faucet that hadn’t been turned off all the way. Water dropped in a steady rhythm against the backdrop of electronic noise, and for some reason, this was the sound that his brain latched on to the most—the sound of water, echoing off a metal basin, constant and controlled. Like a metronome ticking, like a heart beating, like clockwork inside his head, the water continued to drip. 

The more The Asset tried to ignore the _taptaptapping_, the louder it seemed to become. He closed his eyes, counted his breathes, in and out, and in and out, and in and out, and so on...

_  
tap_

_tap_

_tap_

_tap_

_tap  
_

The sound was becoming infuriating, inescapable.

The Asset was _uncomfortable_. The faucet continued to leak, for what felt like an eternity, until The Asset became aware of his own body, beating in time with the dripping sounds. He suddenly realized that every time a new drop of water splashed against the metal sink, his _bladder_ spasmed in tandem with it. His abdomen felt distended and painfully full. He understood then, this was the source of his uncomfortableness. 

He didn’t like being made to feel this uncomfortable.

The Assest was _malfunctioning_. This had never happened before, and he was beginning to panic, unsure what to do. The pain in his lower belly was intensifying and as much as he attempted to will his body to stay still, he couldn’t seem to stop squirming. The need to relieve himself was paramount. He’d experienced this degree of desperation a few times before, on long missions. But on those occasions he’d been free and in control of himself. He’d been able to take care of his business without making a mess, no matter how late he’d waited. This was different. Never had the feeling come upon him so quickly and with such urgency. 

The Asset was not in _control_. He wanted to call out, to scream for help, so that he could be let free to relieve himself elsewhere, like normal. But drawing attention to himself would make him bad; only quiet assets were good. He bit his lip viciously in an effort to stop the desperate plea trying to escape his throat. He was straining actively against his restraints, trying to lift his hips away from the chair, making abortive little thrusts into the air. The pain was intensifying though, and at some point the need to urinate would overtake him completely. The feeling of dampness was already present in his pants. 

The Asset was _afraid_. His pants were beginning to dampen, and there was no way for him to free himself from the material. His chair restraints made sure of that. Wetting his clothing was _wrong_ but he was helpless to stop the process now that it was beginning. Water continued to drip, maddeningly, from the faucet, and his bladder spasmed as his cock pulsed in tandem with the drips. He actively began leaking into his pants and the sensation was terrifying. He struggled against his bonds as more and more hot liquid squirted from his member, until finally, finally, without any actual thought on his own, his body stopped writhing and he just sat there, no longer moving, as the leaking turned to a heavy stream.

The Asset was peeing himself. 

Urine poured out of him, filling his trousers and running warm and moist down his thighs, the wetness trickling over his balls, causing him to shudder and gasp. He lost all control. He relieved himself fully and loudly, hissing, dripping, splashing through his clothing to the chair and floor beneath him. 

The faucet continued to drip. 

The Asset was _wet_. This was not good. This was painful and wrong, and he whimpered and was instantly horrified that he’d made a noise. His groin was hot and his pants were soaked. He could feel the wet puddle pooling in the chair beneath him, and he was helpless to avoid it. He sat, his ass dampening, his thighs sticky with his piss, and he whimpered again. 

The noises would draw attention to himself. Eventually someone would hear and come looking and find him all soiled and pathetic and disgusting. He didn’t want that, but he had no other options. He had been _bad_, and now he would be punished, and the sooner the happened the sooner it would be over and then he could be dry again. Dry and safe.

The Asset only ever wanted one thing. Today, he failed. 

Tomorrow though, he would be _good_ again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written with a nod to WhatEvenAmI’s story “Affinity”.


	4. Realizing they have to go, but being too busy to take a break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony Stark does not have time to waste dealing with bodily functions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, dear anon, I was way ahead of you. _Of course_ Tony Stark was going to get assigned to this prompt. Great omo-minds think alike. Thanks for the inspiration. Hope you enjoy!

Tony Stark is _working_. He’s currently in his lab, music blaring, blackout protocol in full force, as he seamlessly navigates between the no-less-than five holoscreens floating in front of him. The soldering iron is still smoking on the table-top next to him, safety goggles pushed to the top of his head, askew amidst a tangle of unruly dark curls. He’s perched on the edge of his stool and the waistband of his grey sweats is currently tucked beneath his balls as his right hand is directing his cock down to the floor where a large red trash can is strategically positioned below him. And he is pissing, full force, into said can.

Wait.

Stop.

Rewind.

You don’t just go from point A to point B without _something_ happening in between, right? So how did Tony get here, exactly?

Let’s review, in excruciating detail.

——————

1

3 am. Three weeks prior. Tony has been in his lab for forty-eight hours straight. He’s taken five breaks: two mandated by JARVIS (including a power shake, a protein bar, four hours of sleep, and two bathroom breaks); one imposed on him by Steve (including a home made sandwich, three bottles of water, two more hours of sleep, another piss, and The Disappointed Look); followed by two more annoying interruptions from his bladder because _he broke the goddamn seal_, thanks a lot, JARVIS. 

But he’s in the final stretch now, that sweet spot when everything is just coming together perfectly. JARVIS is running the final simulations, and if Tony’s math is correct—and when is it ever wrong?—then this is going to be _huge_. Nano-fucking-technology! This will be the most advanced Iron Man suit to date. 

Tony checks the clock as he waits for the simulation to run its course. He’s been sitting at his work bench for the last four hours, compiling data and going over the blueprints with a fine-tooth comb. He’s distantly aware of a dull ache in his abdomen —probably hunger—and a stiffness in his neck and shoulders. He dismisses the aches and pains without so much as a cursory acknowledgment, though. He can worry about that stuff later. After. When he’s sufficiently satisfied with the final mock-up. His foot is tapping restlessly against the stool, not really in time with the music any longer, and he’s starting to perspire. Small beads of moisture dot his temples. 

Nerves. He’s a giant ball of nervous energy, is all. 

“How much longer, JARVIS?” 

“Almost finished, Sir. Results in one minute and forty-five seconds.”

Tony resists the urge to count down in his head, although the numbers would be soothing. His hands are absently rubbing his distended belly and his thighs are jiggling against his seat in anxious anticipation. He almost can’t bear the suspense. After what feels like an eternity, JARVIS announces the results.

“According to your calculations, as with previous models, Sir, this suit will function within normal parameters at altitudes exceeding the current Earth stratosphere of thirty-two miles.”

“Yes!” Tony shouts as he jumps up, kicking his stool aside, and fist pumping the air. “Who’s your daddy!?”

“I believe the correct answer is ‘you are’, Sir.” JARVIS intones without inflection.

Tony doesn’t have time to respond though because in one second he’s standing, attempting a celebratory dance, and in the next second he’s...he’s...

...peeing.

He’s peeing his pants, and _oh_, that wasn’t hunger or nervous energy he had been feeling. That was his entirely too full bladder that he had been ignoring. _Well, shit_.

Tony tries, belatedly, to stem the tide by grabbing futilely at his dick through his jeans, but he apparently passed the point of no return some time ago and was just too busy to notice. He closes his eyes and tucks his chin to his chest instead, resigned to just waiting his bladder out. Piss is flowing steadily from his dick, so unbelievably hot and strong. His jeans are soaked within a matter of seconds, and the pee runs unrepentant over his balls and down his thighs, until he can actually hear it hitting the concrete floor. The liquid pools around his bare feet, and soon enough he finds himself standing in a puddle of his own piss. But despite his underlying feeling of mortification, Tony can’t help sighing in relief.

Phase One of his glorious new suit is now complete. He’s a fucking genius.

——————

2

After completing the design stage, Tony is back in the lab the following week, working on materials and implementation. The work is more physical, but no less cerebral, and Tony’s brain is constantly engaged in multiple strands of thought. 

But priorities first.

He’s tweaked the blackout protocol to make sure that he 100% cannot be interrupted, short of an Avengers assemble call or nuclear catastrophe or alien invasion, or all three at once, no one is getting into his lab. JARVIS’ well meaning mandatory breaks have been reduced to a bare minimum, and his power bars and water bottles are all conveniently within reach. Finally, after the incident the week prior, Tony took the time to write Operation Floodgate into his AI’s programming. When Op Floodgate is engaged, JARVIS will scan Tony’s body every forty-five minutes, making note of the level of fluid in his bladder, and will notify Tony when the time comes to relieve himself.

In short, Tony can devote all of his attention to his work and can completely ignore his body. JARVIS has this covered. 

The program works flawlessly. So much so that seven hours into the work, Tony is startled by JARVIS’ announcement that his bladder is now at capacity and must be emptied within the next few minutes if he wishes to avoid another accident. Huh. Now that J has brought his attention to his body, Tony begins to notice the heavy, full feeling pressing against the waistband of his jeans. As he acknowledges the pressure, he feels his dick twitch restlessly against the denim. 

“Sir, I really must insist that you break now to relieve yourself.”

“Gotcha, J. Just give me five more seconds.” Tony fiddles with the parts on the table in front of him and begins to bounce a bit on his stool. He knows he needs to head to the bathroom pronto, but walking across the workshop to the toilet is going to take precious minutes away from his work, and the thought of losing time really annoys him. He wiggles in his seat and reaches down to pop open the fly on his pants. Five seconds turns into five minutes, during which time he begins actively squirming on the spot. The momentary relief he felt from giving his dick some breathing room was short lived. 

“Sir, if you do not intend...”

“Yeah, yeah, J, I’m going now, ok?” Tony whines a bit petulantly. Except his body doesn’t move to get up. Instead, his left hand continues to swipe through the screens dancing before him, while his brain processes information, and his right hand...his right hand reaches into his jeans and pulls his now-leaking cock free and aims, without bothering to look, at the floor.

Almost as soon as his cock hits the open air, he’s pissing. Tony hears himself moan involuntarily in relief, and his attention is drawn, briefly to his emptying bladder. Some part of him knows this isn’t exactly what he had in mind when he wrote Operation Floodgate, but at least this time his pants are dry. He pees for a good two minutes, including a few delayed spurts that splash the floor and the cuff of his pants, before he shakes himself off and tucks himself back into his jeans. He doesn’t bother zipping them back up though, because he knows he’s just going to have to go again in another few hours, and why bother with the extra step?

Just as he is beginning to return his attention fully back to his work, his near pants-wetting incident practically forgotten already, he feels a cold metal arm nudge his elbow. He looks down to see DUM-E standing beside him, concerned, and holding onto a brand new roll of toilet paper. Tony rolls his eyes...

...but the sight of DUM-E beside him gives him an idea.

——————

3

Tony is _working_. He’s currently in his lab, music blaring, blackout protocol in full force, as he seamlessly navigates between the no-less-than five holoscreens floating in front of him. The soldering iron is still smoking on the table-top next to him, safety goggles pushed to the top of his head, askew amidst a tangle of unruly dark curls. 

The third and final phase of the Iron Man armor is almost complete. Tony does not have fucking time for bodily distractions. After Operation Floodgate was only semi-successful in keeping Tony from wetting himself like a child, Tony made one slight modification to the program. Clearly JARVIS alerting him to his bladder’s desperation was not enough motivation for Tony to stop working, and really, why should he have to stop? Peeing at his workstation worked out fine—just, maybe not on the floor anymore because that was kind of a bitch to clean up after the fact. 

Hence, Operation Floodgate 2.0: Tony’s bladder is at maximum capacity, but he’s pretty oblivious, so JARVIS alerts the appropriate entity. Which is _not_ Tony. 

Tony huffs in annoyance when he feels the insistent tap against his shin. He looks down to find DUM-E holding a trash can underneath the table, bumping against his legs. Tony rolls his eyes but can’t deny that, yeah, he could suddenly really use a piss. So that’s how he ends up perched on the edge of his stool, with the waistband of his grey sweats tucked beneath his balls as his right hand directs his cock down to the floor where the large red trash can is strategically positioned below him. 

“Thanks, buddy.” Tony sighs as he begins pissing full-force into the can. Damn, that’s good. He can’t help congratulating himself on working out such an efficient system. His new suit is going to be completed in record time. Tony feels a pang of regret though that once the building phase is finished he’s going to have to go back to using the toilet like the bona fide adult he is—when clearly peeing wherever he happens to be, with the help of his AI and his bots, is definitely the more pleasant option. But there isn’t any logical reason, that he can think of, to completely shut Operation Floodgate 2.0 off while he’s working day-to-day. He’s not actually hurting anyone by using the trash can as a toilet, so who really cares?

DUM-E taps his arm when his stream slows to a trickle and drips sporadically from his cock, splashing the pee already collected in the can. Tony snorts in amusement. “Yeah, not quite finished yet, Dummy.”

He waits a few more seconds before carefully shaking himself off and then tucking his dick back into his sweats. He gets back to work, feeling lighter and more refreshed than he did a few minute ago. 

And he completely ignores DUM-E as he dutifully collects the trash can full of Tony’s pee and heads for the bathroom.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fan fiction. In no way, shape, or form do I hold the rights to these characters. No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> I have no excuses at this point, and apparently no shame, either.


End file.
